Why Don't You Take Me Home
by Sydella
Summary: Snapshots of Daemon's long, troubled life. [Daemon x Elena, hints of Giotto x Daemon]


When he thinks about his life, there is but one point in time he can look at and say, Yes, this is where it all started. One person whom he loves and hates more than any other.

Daemon's body is covered in the signs of a brutal life: scars, tattoos and bruises. In a society dominated by beautiful and dangerous men, even aristocrats like him are not spared. No matter how much time goes by, Elena can never be erased from his mind. Neither can the man she introduced him to. The Great Sky, revolutionary leader and a beacon of hope-the kind of person who is too good to be true.

 _Damn Primo._

X

"Where were you?" Ricardo asks.

The second Vongola don's annoyance is evident. He is always displeased about something. Daemon prefers him like this: furious and ready to snap at anyone or anything. Dominant, just the way a mafia boss should be.

"Forgive me, Secondo." Daemon bends at the waist and executes a deep, perfectly courteous bow. "The elimination of the Tomaso took longer than I expected."

Ricardo narrows his green eyes. Seated regally on a plush velvet armchair, he reminds Daemon of a mad king. Attuned to the older man's moods, Daemon takes a step backwards just in time to avoid an object that goes sailing through the air and grazes his head.

The door swings open and Yuuki, one of Ricardo's other loyal Guardians, walks in. "Oh my," he says in the professionally bored tone of seasoned Mafiosi everywhere. "Attacking your own Guardians now, Secondo? Who's next, your mother?"

"Shut up," Ricardo growls. "I do what I want."

"Of course you do," Yuuki says soothingly, his manner more conciliatory now. "Daemon, how did the fight against the Tomaso go?"

Daemon wipes a trickle of blood off his forehead and examines the red droplets with clinical interest. "Ninety-nine percent eliminated," he replies brusquely.

"Oh?" Yuuki raises an eyebrow. "And where did the remaining one percent go?"

"They, um…escaped." Daemon cannot bring himself to meet Ricardo's gaze. "About twenty men and their wives left through a hidden back door. I sent some of our goons after them, but last I heard, the escapees were already heading for Finland."

"You son of a _whore_ ," Ricardo hisses. He stands abruptly. Yuuki flits out of the room like a nervous cat. Seconds later, the sound of a slap reverberates through the room and Daemon is left reeling, clutching at the angry red wound Ricardo has left on his cheek.

"Do not disappoint me again." Ricardo pivots on his heel and storms away, pausing only to toss a scornful "Do you understand?" over his shoulder.

"Loud and clear," Daemon mutters. He has actually gotten off very lightly, all things considered. In the corridor outside, Ricardo and Yuuki are standing close enough to kiss, their expressions determined and serious. Stepping into Ricardo's bathroom, Daemon splashes cold water on his injured cheek and resists an urge to hit something.

Primo would never injure him. Knowing this does nothing to improve his mood.

X

"You should not be here." Knuckle speaks with unfailing calm. An evening breeze ruffles his dark hair, the only disturbance in his otherwise immaculate appearance.

Daemon scowls. The priest is the only member of the first generation who even gives Daemon the time of day anymore. These days, the others all look at him with ill-concealed hatred. Except soft-hearted Giotto, of course.

 _Turn away. I do not want your forgiveness._

"I do not want to be here." The words fall from Daemon's thin lips like a prayer. "Secondo sent me here, with a message for Primo. I am merely carrying out Secondo's orders. Like a good soldier," he adds bitterly.

Knuckle squints at him in the dying sunlight. They are in a small church owned by Knuckle's family, and grim-faced saints peer at them from mullioned windows. "Even so, your presence is not welcome here. I cannot say with absolute certainty that G. will not kill you the moment he sets eyes on you."

"Is he even here? Someone told me he's out of town." Daemon fidgets under his former friend's scrutiny.

"Out of town, yes. But he did not say when he will return. For all I know, he could come in any minute now and kill you where you stand." As if sensing Daemon's discomfort, Knuckle looks away. "Do not gamble with your life, Daemon Spade."

"I will not." The Mist Guardian stands abruptly. "Please inform Primo that Secondo will not be at his wedding, due to…personal reasons."

Knuckle's expression does not change. "Very well. I shall deliver your message as soon as I can."

Daemon nods. The two Guardians stare at each other in contemplative silence. At this point, there is nothing else left to say. A woman enters the church and glances at them. "Father, I have sins to confess," she says meekly.

Knuckle beams at her. "Dear lady, the Lord will…" Daemon does not hear the rest as he is already walking out the church doors. A blonde youth is sitting on a bench nearby and reading a newspaper-or rather, pretending to. Daemon makes a beeline for him.

" _Ciao_ , Angelo."

The newspaper flutters to the ground and Angelo looks at him expectantly. "Well?"

"Message delivered," Daemon assures him.

Angelo smirks. "Secondo will be pleased."

"I hope so." Daemon rubs the spot where Ricardo had slapped him the previous week. Angelo gazes at it for a moment but makes no comment.

"Well, then. I'll be on my way." The blonde leaves the area with long, loping strides.

The evening air is chilly, and Daemon shivers as he walks on. Somewhere, he knows, Ricardo is holed up with the other second generation Guardians, soon to be joined by Angelo. The weight of their collective judgment is the cross he must bear. Even at this distance, Daemon can feel Ricardo's contemptuous gaze and palpable wrath.

Once, he had a home to seek shelter in and people who loved him just the way he is. Back then, he had a warm and caring Sky to look up to. Now, he barely knows what to do with himself.

He begins to laugh hysterically. Passers-by stare at him, scandalised, but he does not care. He does not care about anything anymore. All that matters is the dream Elena shared with him, even if he has to break every bone in his body and become a monster to accomplish it.

 _You'll be proud of me, my love, for I am dying. I am a martyr for you._

X

He and Elena had never argued. Well, almost never. In the early days of their relationship, when he was still courting her, he had said something-he can't even remember what it was-that had clearly touched a nerve. Elena had run away in tears, and when he visited her residence to try offering an explanation, her father was enraged and ordered a servant to forcibly eject him from the premises. Giotto plied him with wine and comforted him late into the night. One thing led to another, and Daemon woke to find himself shrouded in a tangle of bedsheets.

"Primo." That one word, spoken with disgusted love and pleading hatred, stirred Giotto out of a deep slumber.

"What's the matter?" The first Vongola don murmured sleepily.

Daemon was on the verge of tears, but somehow managed to regain his composure. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Okay." Giotto yawned and wished him a good night although it was technically already morning.

For a long time, Daemon sat as still as a statue, thoughts racing through his mind. At sunrise, he got out of bed, dressed in his finest clothes and returned to Elena's residence. Her father was not at home, and after a good night's sleep, she had calmed down and readily forgave him. Hours later, he kissed her for the very first time.

They never spoke of the argument, but she was an intelligent woman and even in their happiest times, he suspected that she knew.

She knew.

X

A universal truth and oft-quoted axiom for all Mafiosi is "live fast, die young". The Vongola are no exception. Ricardo's Guardians are still young and pretty when they descend gracefully to Hell.

Daemon claws his way back into the mortal world and slips back into the fray as easily as if he had never left. His two Skies do nothing to stop him. He is not particularly surprised by their lack of interference. After all, he had once overheard a very telling conversation between them.

"Daemon is your Guardian now," Giotto had said.

"And what would you have me do?" Ricardo asked calmly.

"Protect him." Giotto's voice wavered ever so slightly.

Ricardo sighed. "I'll see what I can do. But he may already be beyond the point of redemption."

"Don't say that." Giotto sounded tearful. "I want him to be happy."

"You, brother," and here Ricardo paused as if to allow more time for his words to sink in, "are too kind for your own good."

Daemon had crept away, not wanting to hear anymore. He felt stricken. Happy? _Happy?_ After all that Daemon had done, Giotto wanted him to be happy? And Ricardo accepted this with an utter lack of resistance. Daemon prided himself on knowing everything there was to know about the Mafia, but to think that Giotto and Ricardo, of all people, would cooperate for his sake…

Sometimes Daemon wonders if the universe is playing tricks on him.

X

Memories are the bane of Daemon's existence. He does not want to remember G.'s wry smile as the redhead poured coffee for a sleepless Asari, or the way Alaude curled languidly on a hammock while Knuckle cracked jokes to cheer Lampo up. Most of all, he does not want to remember that dreamlike summer day when he grasped the slender hands of his first Sky and thought to himself, _This might be love_.

Elena is his angel. Ricardo is both his saviour and tormentor.

And Giotto-dear, sweet, wisely foolish and foolishly wise Giotto-is the master of fate's wheel, shoving Daemon into darkness before pulling him back into the light.


End file.
